Gold
by Scribbler
Summary: [one shot] Sometimes a single moment is all you need to look into the past. Jubilee fic. [In same continuity as Lament and Fallin' Off the World]


DISCLAIMER: X-Men:Evo and its characters don't belong to me. I promise to return them with minimal damage when I'm done.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I said I wouldn't do it, but my muse is a temperamental thing and it flatly refused to cooperate on my new fic unless I gave in and wrote this. So I appeased it. This isn't so much a spin-off as a tie-in to my fic _Lament_, since it takes place before the main events of that story, but you need to know Jubilee's past to understand this thing. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.   
  
I'd also like to take this opportunity to say that I know bugger all about gymnastics. Everything in here comes from my sister, who far surpassed me as a child in the realms of anything approaching physical exercise. Which is why I now sit on my hiney and write fanfiction while she runs around the block in a tracksuit keeping fit.  
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'Gold' By Scribbler  
March 2003  
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'We tell our triumphs to the crowds, but our own hearts are the sole confidants of our sorrows.' -- Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton  
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The crowd roared, clapping like their lives depended on it. A few stood up. Standing ovation? Jeez, that was going to be hard to beat.  
  
She paused a second, looking up to see the judges' reaction to that display. An 8.6 average, and they were all smiling. Judges never smiled. It was some cruel quirk of the universe that no matter what you did, or how well you did it, judges never so much as nodded in acknowledgement, let alone cracked a smile.  
  
Yet they were. Well, all except that old prune on the end, and she had so many wrinkles they probably weighed her face down too much to ever do anything except grimace.  
  
Jubilee transferred her weight from leg to leg, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she watched the slim, long-legged girl walk off the crash mat, smile firmly in place and arms still above her head. She looked perfect, the ultimate competitor. Almost like a model from one of the equipment catalogues, really. No wisps of blonde hair had snuck from their restraints, and there was barely a flush to her skin.   
  
Jubilee's stomach suddenly felt like a whole host of butterflies had taken up residence therein, and she swallowed. Yeah, like that was going to make any difference. Especially since her throat was so dry.  
  
Instinctively she reached for her bottle of water, taking care not to spill any down the front of her leotard. _That would look brilliant, wouldn't it? Going out with drool all down yourself. Very professional._ She forced herself to slow down and take small sips, not chugging like her guts demanded she should.  
  
A dark shadow approached, preceding the towering form of her coach, Ezra Morney, a great hulk of a man who easily dwarfed anybody standing near him, yet was as gentle as a lamb unless someone threatened him and his own. He looked up from the clipboard he was carrying, brown eyes dancing like he was the one about to go out there and face that mob.   
  
"All set?"  
  
"You kidding?" There was a tremble to her habitually brash voice, and he smiled down, taking a hand off the clipboard to give her chin a friendly half-punch. His knuckles slid along her jawline, not a tremor to be seen, and she was somehow grateful for the contact of his unnerved fingers.   
  
Ezra was, to all intents and purposes, the big brother she'd never had, as well as filling in the role of her mentor and coach. He was only twenty-five, but knew so much about gymnastics and how to get the best out of any gymnast it had seemed only natural for him to rise up through the ranks and become her trainer. She was the best at what she did, and he was the best at what he did. Nobody questioned the decision to team the pair of them up, and together they'd brought home more awards than the club had seen in over twenty years.  
  
Jubilee had heard several rumours alluding to an old injury of Ezra's that prevented him performing in contests anymore, and had forced him into coaching in the first place. Had he been fighting fit, no doubt he would've made a name for himself in the world of competitive sports, instead of slogging away in a Californian gym teaching snot-nosed kids how to tumble and vault without breaking their arms.   
  
Yet Ezra had never given any credence to the tittle-tattle of the club, and hardly ever talked about his early career, instead always shifting the focus onto her future one. Jubilee was his protégé, exhibiting the same innate talent that had made stars of Olga Korbut and Svetlana Khorkina. And she loved every second working to reach their level of expertise.   
  
She knew she was still a long way off, but Ezra assured her that, with the right training, some day she'd be ready to move out of these small-time competitions and onto the big league. He'd even hinted at the Olympics more than once, but she'd always brushed the idea aside. She loved gymnastics - loved it with all her heart and soul, but she never entertained the idea of being that good. Not outside her secret heart-of-hearts, at least.   
  
Besides, what would her father say if he knew she nursed such wild flights of fancy? Mr. Lee was one of life's order-lovers. Perhaps that was why his forte was numbers. Numbers couldn't lie, they could only add up to one answer, and be manipulated accordingly. Numbers didn't waver or falter. They couldn't be a disappointment, come home late, or run off at the mouth when they should shut up and be quiet.   
  
Of their own accord, Jubilee's eyes were drawn to the crowd in the stands. The parents of all the competitors were seated along the first few rows where there was the best view. Faces of all nationalities gleamed as they watched their offspring excel themselves, or contorted in sympathy as someone fell, twisted, or landed wrong. Ripples of sound caressed the bleachers, and every now and then some proud parent would stand up and yell words of encouragement to his or her budding progeny.   
  
She scanned the sea of smiles, but even as she did so she knew there was no point. He'd never come before. Why would now be any different?  
  
It still hurt though.  
  
"You'll knock 'em dead."  
  
Ezra's voice startled her from her reverie, and she jolted at him, expression blank for a second as her brain registered what he'd said.   
  
"I hope not. They're the ones who have to give me the points."  
  
He smiled, creasing the crow's feet around his eyes. Like most Californians, Ezra's skin was a deep, burnished bronze, the only pale places visible to the world being the creases on his face. They were very pale indeed, indicating that he smiled a lot.  
  
"Atta girl. Just remember the routine, OK? You'll be fine. You're ready for this. Just think how many you nailed already. This is pure flan."  
  
His efforts made her smile, despite her jumpy stomach. "Cake, Ezra. Pure cake. And I thought you said I shouldn't rest on my laurels?"  
  
"I thought you told me your laurels were a very comfortable place to rest?"  
  
"Touché." Something feathery brushed her forehead, and she made a frustrated noise as another lock of damp black hair fell across her face. "Ugh, forget hairspray, I think I need cement to keep this stuff in place." With practised ease she balanced the water bottle under one arm and tucked the lock back into place, smoothing the rest of her hair with the palm of her hand. "Am I presentable?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Ezra replied, not looking up from his clipboard. He went on, still examining the paper he'd been making notes on since the competition started. "You're doing well so far, but this last piece is the clincher. It can go either way, so no predictions today, I'm afraid."   
  
"You can't be psychic all the time," she joked, more lightly than she felt. Ezra made a habit of noting the opposition's position to gauge how they were doing, as well as researching all he could about them and their techniques in advance. 'Prepping for war' he called it, and sometimes through his research he could predict what equipment opponents were going to fail on, so she could try extra hard. She'd started calling him psychic because of it, but there was no truth behind her words. After all, there were no such things as *real* psychics in the world. Just those old hacks and crocks you got at amusement parks, fairs and found putting ads in the paper.  
  
Jubilee replaced the bottle in her bag and gripped the towel about her shoulders to stop her fingers from shaking. The leather of her palm-guards brushed against the fabric, loud in her ears. Most gymnasts used chalk to help them get a better grip, but recently she'd started having a bad reaction to the stuff, so Ezra had sought out a pair of soft leather guards instead. It was an odd sort of affliction, since it didn't seem to affect any part of her body except her hands. Almost like a burning pain that flared up every so often.   
  
"Who's closest on the scoreboard?" she asked, jiggling impatiently.   
  
He met her eyes, a sober light behind them. "Phoebe Heimer. 8.6 average on all equipment, and she's finished her rounds."   
  
Jubilee scowled, furrowing her brow so deep you could plant potatoes in it. She and Phoebe Heimer were rivals, of a sort. They went to the same exclusive school, and trained at the same gym, but had different coaches, and Phoebe never failed in an opportunity to show off and proclaim how many gold medals she'd won. Jubilee had earned three gold herself, but been relegated to silver for the years since Phoebe had moved to Beverly Hills and claimed all competitions with her long legs and pale beauty. 'A washed out Sunday', Ezra called her; and indeed, her wispy hair and dithery blue eyes alike were so pallid as to appear almost colourless upon occasion.  
  
It was a stupid rivalry, really. The two girls were close in ability, and only separated by two years in age, but from the first they'd never seen eye-to-eye - and not just because Jubilee was so short compared to Phoebe, either. They moved in different circles, and only came together when they had to defend the club's honour in team competitions.  
  
Today wasn't a team event, and Jubilee intended to beat Phoebe Heimer into the ground.  
  
"I've only got uneven bars left. How much do I need to beat her?"  
  
"At least an 8.6. That'll put your average up to 8.7, a point above hers. But it'll be tough." He looked squarely at her. Ezra was nothing if not blunt, and didn't believe in dressing up the truth to make her feel better. "Bars aren't your strongest piece of equipment. Now, we've worked on this routine long and hard, so I *know* you know it."  
  
She smiled.  
  
"But I also know how cocky you can get when you know routines well. Don't get too full of yourself, OK? Take it slow, just like we practised. Concentrate on the move you're on, not the one that's coming next. You've done this thing so many times you shouldn't *need* to think. You should just do it. OK?"  
  
"Gee, way to make me feel better." But she nodded all the same. "OK."  
  
The great green tannoy attached to the four corners of the ceiling squealed, and a booming voice rang out. "Jubilation Lee. Calling for competitor number 29, Jubilation Lee."  
  
"Guess that's my cue." She gave her best rakish grin and tossed the towel at him. "Wish me luck."  
  
"You don't need luck," Ezra replied, catching the towel in one hand and giving her a thumbs up with the other.  
  
Nice as the sentiment was, somehow it didn't make her feel better, and by the time she stood beneath the lowest of the two parallel bars, Jubilee's stomach was doing so many flip-flops it could've won the competition all on its own.   
  
She waited, breath catching in her gullet. The eyes of the judges were all on her, and somewhere in the room she knew that Phoebe Heimer was also watching.  
  
There went the buzzer. She leapt; arms outstretched and back rigid the way she'd been taught. Her fingers splayed in the air, then curled around the lower of the two bars, using the momentum of her jump to carry her up into a swing that pointed her toes towards the ceiling.  
  
Remembering Ezra's words, she let go of conscious thought, allowing the memories of long, arduous training sessions to guide her toned body through the manoeuvres she'd practised. He was right, she *did* know this stuff, better than the back of her hands. It was in her mind's eye, the way to swing and glide and twist like a bird in flight, and she'd be damned if nerved were going to take away what she'd worked at for so long.   
  
She swung backwards, arching her back and throwing her feet out to come forward again. Needed to get enough height. Her toes peaked over the rim of the bar, just enough, and she bent nearly double in a pike that almost rested her hips against the metal and turned her over to balance on just her arms in a Free Hip manoeuvre.   
  
Mustn't let her hips touch. Her muscles twanged, but she ignored them, holding the position and then dropping into another swing so fast it nearly took her breath away. Her shoulders jolted uncomfortably in their sockets. Damn, she hadn't made the manoeuvre smooth enough! The force carried her over into a Backward Giant, and a gasp issued from the crowd.  
  
Good old Ezra. He'd known this was the ticket. That was why he'd made her prepare it so hard. Her stomach briefly fluttered as she rounded the bar in the Giant's trademark 360-degree swing, but came back with a bump as she went into another.   
  
Arms straight! Up into a handstand poised atop the bar - she twisted her hands, one over the other in a classic pirouette, and reversed her swing so that she was facing in the opposite direction. Then she powered into another Free Hip, let loose the bar and flew backwards in a flurry of movement so fast that rational thought was impossible, and instinct took over.   
  
Her shoulders wrenched a little as she gripped the higher bar, but she gritted her teeth and focussed on the task at hand - namely, the Stalder move she'd been having trouble on ever since she started practising it months ago. It involved swinging around the bar with a piked body and straddled legs, but somehow she always seemed to bend her knees, more often than not catching the metal and flying off into a heap on the floor with a bruise and a bump.   
  
_Straight legs, straight legs, straight legs, straight legs!_ she thought, biting her lip and keeping her muscles so taut it almost hurt. Her toes pointed, her knees locked, and she flung her body through the air with an ease and grace that belied how difficult it had been to cultivate.   
  
A round of applause went up from the audience, but there was no time to pay it any heed. Jubilee concentrated hard on going into the next handstand resting on the bar. Handstands were tricky, because they involved a lot of balance, and the slightest mistake could mean the difference between a win and a lose.   
  
Another round of applause. Yet again there was no time to savour it. She went into another Stalder, remembering what it'd been like to watch Amy Chow do it on the TV. She'd looked so elegant, so perfectly at home on any piece of apparatus that it was difficult to watch her doing plain old things like walking or slobbing around in her tracksuit afterwards. Old videos she'd studied so long they'd gone grainy rushed through her mind like lightning.  
  
_Focus, Jubilee, *focus*,_ she chastised herself, and the self-recrimination channelled into her next handstand so that she completed it with an aggression that would show plainly on her face in the pictures several members of the crowd took at that moment.  
  
Another switch from higher to lower bar. It went off without a hitch, and she turned, swinging back and forth between the two thrice more, compromising herself only once in a sloppy catch that rang in her ears as the bar juddered beneath her fingers. Mistakes meant lost points, and lost points meant Phoebe Heimer grinning at her as she took the gold yet *again*.   
  
Then came the final move.  
  
_Please, please, please..._  
  
She swung forward; legs straddled and toes pointed to balance imperceptibly on the taller bar. Into a handstand, then off with a twist that sent her heart soaring. This was what it was like to fly. This was truly living.  
  
But gravity had never meant for humans to take flight, and it was either catch the bar or become a blushing pancake on the crash mat.   
  
Needless to say, she chose the bar.  
  
And how.  
  
Her fingers had barely touched the metal when she swiped under, reached the zenith of the swing and let go, dragging her hands to cross her chest and spinning around like a record on a turntable. Once, twice - keep going, but watch the height! Too low! Too low! She'd come out of the swing too soon, and the floor rushed up to greet her before she was ready.  
  
Cutting short her final turn, Jubilee bent her knees and jutted her arms behind her, landing heavily, but mercifully staying on her feet and not swaying from side to side. It was passable - no time to dissect it! - and she raised her arms in the finishing position the way she'd been taught, arching her back and splaying her fingers with a stylish flourish.  
  
Reality returned with a jerk, and she was suddenly very aware of all the eyes upon her, and the judges conferring at their table. The wrinkly old woman cast a piercing glance her way, and she summoned her most dazzling smile. The merest nod, and she let her arms drop, staggering away to where Ezra waited with towel, water and a hug.  
  
"You were great, kiddo," he assured her, ruffling her hair. She was too nervous to care at the rumpled mess he left it in, adrenaline draining from her system and leaving her shaky and tired. Suddenly all she wanted to do was sleep, but at the same time the cluster of faces deciding her fate refused to let her look away.   
  
"I messed up," she said weakly, sucking the water between wracking breaths. "Lost so many points. Sloppy dismount - jeez, I was so ready for this, and I fluffed it at the finishing post!"  
  
Ezra's brows drew together. "You expect too much of yourself. You did the best you could."  
  
"Not gonna be enough to beat Phoebe," she deadpanned.   
  
There was no answer to that, so instead he just wrapped a reassuring arm about her shoulders and waited alongside her for the judge's decision. She sighed, leaning against him with a muffled "thank you" for just being there.  
  
It wasn't long in coming. There seemed to be some kind of heated debate at the last second, but before she knew what was going on Jubilee found herself watching them scribble and raise the cards bearing her scores.   
  
The first gave her 8.3. She was disappointed, but not especially surprised.  
  
_That's what you get for being sloppy._  
  
The second was more generous. 8.7. Her jaw nearly hit the floor, and Ezra squeezed her.  
  
"Told you so."  
  
The third also gave her an 8.7., which was followed by an 8.6 and an 8.5.  
  
"It's in the bag, Jubilee."  
  
But there was still the wrinkly old woman. The one who'd been arguing at the end of their conferring. She fixed the young gymnast with an imperious gaze that bespoke of many long years in the world, and the many performances she'd watched. Her hair was scraped back into a stern grey bun, speared through with a piece of bronzed metal that only added to an overbearing appearance offset by blue eyes that were strangely glittering, instead of rheumy like so many old peoples'.   
  
Jubilee held her breath.  
  
The old woman raised her card.  
  
8.9.  
  
And then Ezra was hugging her tight, and she was squealing, and the water bottle dropped to the floor forgotten as the two of them capered about like a pair of energetic puppies. Jubilee caught a glimpse of the old woman smiling, but it was only a glimpse, and she was too wrapped up in her elation to focus on anything other than the moment. This beautiful, beautiful moment.  
  
So what if her father wasn't here? Ezra cared about her. He'd be there to watch and clap and cheer when she mounted the winners' podium. He'd be ready to congratulate her as she took the fourth gold medal she'd ever won in her life. He'd be there to chide her when she crowed about beating Phoebe Heimer - like a sibling, only better.  
  
This was living. This was her ultimate jubilant moment.  
  
"Jubes?"  
  
What was that?  
  
"Hey, Jubes, you OK?"  
  
Jubilee blinked into the gloom, darkness suddenly invading her vision. The curve of a metal wall rose up, vaulted and dark, and her hands tingled where she'd left them above her head. They were pale from lack of blood, and she let them drop to her sides where they brushed her pyjamas and yanked the waistband back up again.  
  
Where was she?  
  
Footsteps. Bare skin on metal, and then a face padded out of the murk on all but silent feet. Concerned green eyes regarded her, and she gazed vacantly at them.  
  
"Jubes?"  
  
"Rahne?"  
  
The scotsgirl breathed a sigh. "You really spaced out for a second there. Caught up in the moment?"  
  
"The... moment?" Jubilee looked around, taking in the familiar sight of the Danger Room at night. A thin trickle of light emanated from the torch in Rahne's hand, although from the way she let it dangle at her side, illuminating only floor, she clearly didn't need it with her lupine senses to guide her.   
  
The Asian girl twisted around to see the looming bulk of the rig behind her; one of the rings still swinging where she'd accidentally caught it with her foot. A pair of uneven, parallel bars stared haughtily down at her, and her palms prickled again with the memory of curved metal against skin.   
  
That was right. She'd come down to steal a go on the rig, using the dead of night as cover to sneak into the DR without Logan finding her and rearranging her organs in alphabetical order. Insomnia driven gymnastics were her release from the stresses of everyday life, though precious few knew it. In fact, besides herself, only Rahne was aware of how she hot-wired her way past the security systems, risking their teachers' wrath just to fly on a few bits of metal welded together for Kurt and Logan to exercise on when the fancy took them. Nobody knew of her love for gymnastics, period. Save Rahne, of course. And even then it wasn't because Jubilee had spilled her secrets, but because she'd once followed her down here out of curiosity.  
  
She'd followed her every time thereafter, as well. It was easy, considering they shared a bedroom with only one bed, so Jubilee had to pick her way over Rahne's sleeping bag on the floor just to get out. Plus, you really couldn't beat a lycanthrope for sensing when something's amiss at night.   
  
She supposed that was why she'd tolerated Rahne's accompanying her on these midnight jaunts, enduring her presence because she could smell a teacher at a hundred paces, and knew all the best 'secret' passages for sneaking back to bed unnoticed when Logan or Ororo blocked the hall.   
  
Rahne already viewed them as friends, she knew. Then again, Rahne pretty much viewed everybody as friends - even Amara and Ray, the two prickliest things in the mansion that weren't directly related to one of Ororo's cacti. And despite her initial trepidation, Jubilee found herself warming to the idea, and the little redhead who just so wanted to be liked. Rahne was one of those people who bounced about like a mad thing until you cracked a smile, and Jubilee discovered herself smiling more and more each day that passed in this strange place for mutant freaks she now found herself.  
  
Just her luck she did so as Logan finished repairing her own bedroom. She and Rahne would be roommates for a week longer, tops, before Jubilee moved back into the room she'd accidentally trashed in a fight on her first day at the Xavier Institute. Having her own space again would be a welcome development, but no doubt the midnight excursions would lack their flavour without a bundle of puppyish energy by her side.  
  
Yet now not even Rahne could stop the sudden knot of sadness that lurched into the pit of her stomach. Jubilee looked up at the rig, twitching her fingers.  
  
Yes, she'd been caught up in the moment. Ezra, Phoebe, that strange judge - all gone from her life now, much like the gymnastics that had bound them to it in the first place. Without thinking she'd automatically gone into that routine that had won her last gold, replaying the events that accompanied it in her mind and losing herself in the recollection of a happier time.  
  
What she wouldn't give to see Ezra again. But the last she'd seen of him was when she'd been forced to clean out her locker at the club. That had been the day she moved into Los Angeles County Juvenile Hall, and she remembered how he'd rushed up to her at the entrance and enveloped her in a bear hug when she told him of her sudden departure. If she concentrated hard enough she could still smell the faint whiff of his cologne, or see the strange wetness in his eyes as he watched the car pull away with her in the back seat.  
  
She'd watched him standing there, forlorn at the side of the road until they turned the corner. She'd never seen him again after that. Probably these days he had a new pupil to train, but she'd kept their last gold medal. Even when things were at their very worst she'd refused to part with it.   
  
"Jubes?"  
  
She blinked. "Uh... sorry. I was a million miles away for a second."  
  
"I could see."  
  
She readjusted her pyjamas again, wiping her nose on the sleeve and turning away from the rig and all it reminded her of. "Come on, we'd best get back to bed before Logan decides to make a spontaneous check and finds us gone."  
  
Rahne looked at her strangely, but said nothing, simply bobbing her head and heading for the exit.  
  
Jubilee paused a second, stealing a last glance around. How she missed the applause, the feeling of adulation when she stood atop the podium and held her medal aloft. She missed the feeling of walking into the changing room and having other members of the club come up and congratulate her.  
  
"Jubes? Are you *sure* you're OK?" Rahne slipped up to her shoulder and caught her elbow, a concerned note to her voice. "You seem really spacey tonight."  
  
Jubilee shook her head, clearing the last vestiges of the memory. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little tired is all. Come on, we'd best be going."  
  
They left without another word or backward glance, and the Danger Room doors slid shut behind them on a darkened, silent room.  
  
There would be no more applause for her.  
  
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Finis.  
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End file.
